


can you tell I'm losing sleep?

by chasingforeverandaday



Series: what am I supposed to do? (the robin hood au) [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arya has no chill, Bandits & Outlaws, Banter, Childhood Friends, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fakeout Makeout, Fluff, Gendry has no game, Kissing in the Rain, Oblivious, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Tropes, like seriously all the tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22918846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingforeverandaday/pseuds/chasingforeverandaday
Summary: It seemed Arya was determined to drive him utterly mad, with the way she pranced about in his clothes, and shared his bed every night, snuggling close and tucking her cold toes under his legs, and seemed to tell everyone they met that she was his wife. No, this could not end well for Gendry and all of his frustration, not at all.///Arya would like to point out that she knew Gendry could be a bit daft sometimes, but she never thought he was this oblivious. She was very close to dancing naked in front of him, if only to see whether or not that would get the fact that she wanted him through his incredibly thick skull.///part two of the robin hood au, and a contribution to gendrya appreciation week
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Series: what am I supposed to do? (the robin hood au) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647274
Comments: 39
Kudos: 195





	can you tell I'm losing sleep?

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to day 2 of Gendrya week, which had the working title of "tropes on tropes on tropes" because apparently when I commit to something, I fucking commit. If anyone wants to guess how many tropes I had on the original list I came up with for this, please feel free to do so in the comments. 
> 
> This was possibly the most fun and ridiculous thing I have ever written, twas an absolute blast. Thanks to Yana for talking me through my writer's block/procrastination spiral.
> 
> Title from Ra Ra Riot's "Can You Tell" because every line in that song sounds like a fic waiting to happen. I was very tempted to call this "my bed's too big for just me" but that would probably be more Arya's POV, while "can you tell I'm losing sleep?" is definitely Gendry.

Shaking himself from the rather inappropriate route his mind had wandered down the moment Arya stepped too close, Gendry took a series of deep breaths before returning back the way he’d come, only to find the ground covered in his few meager possessions, foodstuffs, and weapons strewn about the forest floor.

“Please tell me you have extra clothes here somewhere. As much as I’ve recently grown inordinately fond of this dress, it’s hardly practical for riding.” Arya looked up at him and smirked at the vibrant blush he knew had covered his cheeks once more, before returning to her task of upending his satchel on the ground. 

Rolling his eyes, he walked to the opposite side of the horse and pulled down one of his other saddlebags. Inside, he found the cleanest and smallest clothes he owned, the ones he typically wore last before finally washing everything, and held them out to her. “You could have just asked you know, instead throwing all my shit on the ground.”

“That was me asking, stupid. You were just taking too long.” Arya quickly snatched them out of his hand, holding the tunic up in front of her. It was comically large, nearly to her knees but she had always been tiny. He wasn’t even sure if she’d grown any taller at all since he’d last seen her at the inn oh so many years ago. 

Upon realizing he was still staring at her, he quickly bent down to gather his things back up again, shoving them haphazardly into the bag she’d dropped. Straightening up, he blanched when he saw she had begun unlacing the back of her dress, something that was making the bodice begin to droop dangerously. “Arya! What are you doing?” He whipped around, trying hard to concentrate on anything other than the disrobing woman behind him. 

“What do you think I’m doing? I need to get out of this thing before I can put on your clothes.” He heard more fabric rustling, then a few grunts of what sounded like frustration. “Um, Gendry?”

Eyes closed, he asked as steadily as possible, “Yes, Arya?”

Her voice was soft when she responded, “I can’t get this dress off by myself. I need you.” Choking back the groan that almost escaped his mouth at her words, he stiffly turned back to her, freezing fully when all he could focus on was the opening back of the scarlet gown, the lacy top of her corset revealed, curls draped out of the way over one of her shoulders. He must have taken too long, because she asked again, “Gendry, please?” When she began to slowly face him again, he stepped into her space, pausing her with a light touch to her shoulders.

Drawing his fingers down to the laces, he traced the patterns they had pressed into her skin. When she shivered, he caught himself, moving his gaze to the still tied knots below her collarbone. “Aye, just give me a moment, never really had much reason to figure one of these things out.” Concentrating on unsnarling the first tangle of ribbon slowly, he nearly missed the way her breath hitched, definitely did not see the confusion and shy happiness that crossed her face at his words.

But he did hear the teasing lilt in her voice when she questioned, “Oh, not much experience with women’s clothing then? Surely such a big strong knight has maidens flinging themselves in his path.” He looked up at her words, caught a glimpse of the half smile and turned red again, before focusing back on the divine torture he was experiencing, undressing Arya Stark.

“Never found a woman I wanted that way, I guess.” Grunting, he yanked a bit harder than he perhaps needed to on the next lace, causing her to yelp in surprise. In apology, he kissed the back of her head before he could think better of it. “Besides, I’m a bastard Arry, and a blacksmith, and an outlaw besides. Not exactly the man anyone’d want to marry.”

“Nowhere in that question did I mention anything about you marrying this hypothetical woman that needed to get out of a dress.”

“Arya…” Whatever thought had been going to make its way out of his mouth was mercifully stopped when he undid her last lace, red dress falling away to reveal the corset and petticoats underneath. Without a word, he removed himself to go splash some water on his face and pray the feelings she sent racing through his blood would calm down before they got back on the horse.

About ten minutes later, he was sitting next to the nearby stream, gazing listlessly at the gently swaying reeds. A cracking twig broke his peace, no doubt Arya coming to find him. Before he saw her though, he heard her voice.

“Where can I pack the gown? Because I would like to keep it if possible, but if there’s not room I can leave it behind. I just, it’s a beautiful dress and it makes me look pretty for once, so…”

And then she came fully into view, and somehow, this was worse than the dress, because she was in his clothes. The same dingy gray shirt that pulled tight across his shoulders draped pleasingly along hers, miles of pale skin just sitting there, graceful collarbones and neck hidden only by the chestnut hair escaping the messy braid she’d tied. She’d worn her corset on top of the shirt, so every curve of her chest, every dip of her torso was visible. The pants still looked too large for her legs, but there wasn’t much to do for that, beyond making new notches in his extra belt and tucking them into her boots. But gods, now he could see all of her legs, legs that looked far too long for a woman of such short stature. His other cloak was dragging along the ground, mud already gathering at the hem. She looked like a dream come true, but a dream all the same.

Shaking his head, he pulled the lump of fabric from her hands and led her back to the horse. Placing her precious dress in one of the empty saddlebags, he made sure everything was set to rights and swung up into the saddle, reaching a hand down for Arya to grasp. As she settled in behind him, her arms came to rest around his waist and her cheek against the back of his shoulder. 

He could feel the cheeky grin on her face as she asked, “Now, where’s the nearest inn? I’d love to sleep on an actual bed tonight. Those stupid Freys have been tying me to trees for the last week.”

* * *

When they arrived at the inn close to sundown, Gendry attempted to convince Arya that she should stable the horse and stay out of sight while he went to get them somewhere to sleep. She merely stared at him with an eyebrow raised before snarkily asking if he’d managed to grow some people skills in their time apart. Before he could form a response, she’d grabbed the bag with his money and flounced into the inn.

Speaking with the stablehand and getting the stallion situated as quickly as he could, Gendry hurried his way through the doors, stopping only when he had a clear view of Arya. She was smiling and laughing with the innkeeper, a middle-aged woman he’d done business with a few times in his travels. When the door closed behind him, they both looked up, a happy grin coming over Arya’s face.

“There he is!” She practically skipped over to him, threading an arm around his waist as she guided him over to the amused innkeeper. “Gods husband, how long does it take to stable a single horse?” Gendry choked on air, trying to cover it up with a cough as best he could. 

When he looked back up with watering eyes, Arya just seemed delighted at both his reaction and the innkeep’s confusion. Turning to the woman as she rubbed his spine in a manner that was probably meant to be soothing, she explained, “We married only a few weeks ago, you’d think he’d be happier to be able to call me his wife after how long it took us to get here. Courted me for years, he did. But what can I say, men are strange creatures.”

Finally having regained his faculties, he shot her an unamused look. Arya grinned up at him innocently enough, squeezing his arm at her side, the picture of an adoring wife. “It’s not that I’m unhappy, _love_ ,” and yes, he put as much emphasis on that endearment as he could, just to see if he could make her blush too. She didn’t. “It’s just that I don’t quite believe this is real.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it will sink in eventually,” she said, running her hand down his arm to lace their fingers, squeezing gently as she did so. “And if it doesn’t, well, I’m sure I can think of something to jog your memory.” With a wink, she grabbed one of the bags out of his hand and disappeared up the stairs, presumably to their room. 

The innkeeper was looking at him as if she’d never seen him before, shaking her head slowly as she gave him the price for the night, lower than any she’d ever charged him in the past. After informing him that she’d send up a tub and water for the bath his wife had requested, she asked him why he’d never mentioned this lady love of his before when he’d stayed there.

He stuttered for a moment, finally settling on as close to the truth as he could. “I never thought I’d be allowed to marry her, I guess. Her mother never seemed to like me much, so I figured it could never happen.” The innkeeper still didn’t look satisfied, so he let himself get lost in the world of a daydream he’d held onto in the years after they’d been separated. “Then she kissed me one day, said she was tired of waiting for me to work up the courage. She dragged me up to her father, told him she was marrying me or no one at all. Still not quite sure how I got so lucky as to be her husband, but…” And he shrugged, because even as his fictional wife, there was very little Arya Stark couldn’t accomplish after she’d set her mind to it. 

Mariah, he’d finally remembered her name was Mariah, gave him a soft look as she gently reached up to touch his cheek. “Keep her close, boy, she clearly loves you. Most of us aren’t quite so fortunate to find someone so willing to accept them exactly as they are.” 

With one more pat, she directed him upstairs, jokingly reminding him not to become so enamored in his wife that they forgot about the dinner to be served later.

Once he’d reached the correct door, he paused, gathering his wits again as he turned the knob to face the woman he’d apparently married without ever knowing. Arya was kneeling by the hearth to build the fire, her cloak thrown over one of the roughly hewn chairs at their little table. Dropping all the bags against a wall, he searched for something, anything to say, as his eyes took in the bed. The single bed. 

Her back turned, Arya cut him off before he could even begin to open his mouth. “Don’t even start with your ‘miladying’ me, we’re sharing, you’re not sleeping on the floor, and that’s final.” Glancing at his slack jaw over her shoulder, she blew a piece of hair out of her face and continued, “No, I’m not reading your mind, you’re just still the most predictable man I’ve ever met.”

Weakly, he tried to argue, “Arya, it’s not proper.”

“Oh, fuck propriety!” she snorted derisively. “Propriety means nothing. Hells, I’m sure the innkeeper would be more scandalized if she came up and found you kicked out of bed, what with us being newly married and all.” Wiggling her eyebrows, she stood up and sashayed towards him, an exaggerated swing in her hips. “Wouldn’t want to displease your new wife, now would you, husband?” 

Sensing that he’d already lost, Gendry grasped for the only topic he could find. “Why did you even tell her we were married? Why would you-” A knock sounded, and a female voice through the door asked if the missus was ready for her bath.

Bold as brass, she looked him right in the eye, smirk on her face as she leaned in close. “Because you certainly don’t look at me like a sister.” Parting shot delivered, she opened the door and began directing the servants about the room. He took the opportunity to escape downstairs, knowing he couldn’t stay with her for a moment longer without losing his senses completely.

* * *

An hour later, Arya had joined him down in the dining area, tucking into her bowl of stew like it was the grandest feast she’d ever eaten. She even finished before he did, stealing bites of his bread when she thought he wasn’t looking. He wouldn’t have minded buying more food, but she seemed to enjoy stealing it from him more than actually eating it. 

Exhausted from their draining day spent on horseback, they mutually decided to retire early. Arya’s tired eyes had looked at the resident bards with interest, but quickly turned away after the first few notes went wrong, a sour look on her face at the off-key rendition of The Dornishman’s Wife. 

Once back in their little room, Gendry’s fatigue faded quickly when he took in the sight of the bed they’d be sharing. Nervous, he turned to Arya, determined to try one last time to convince her of the inappropriateness of the situation, but she’d already begun stripping off. Her boots had flown over to the corner as she stepped out of the too long pants. Quirking an eyebrow, she held his gaze as she slowly began to unlace her corset one row at a time.

He pivoted, making his way over to the side of the bed closer to the door. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he looked down at his foot, taking the removal of his boots more seriously than ever before. He heard a faint giggle from across the room, but kept his eyes down, stubbornly refusing to look at Arya if he could help it.

His outer shirt and belt were easy to remove, but once in nothing but his tunic and pants, he was left with a dilemma; he usually slept naked as a babe, a habit picked up from long years in a forge where every piece of clothing he owned was covered in soot and grime. He had other clothes he could sleep in, the ones he wore while traveling and spending his nights in the woods, but those were in the saddlebag against the far wall.

So distracted by the decision, he startled when Arya’s weight settled on the other side of the bed. Huffing to himself, he stood and made his over to the bags as quickly as he could. Finding his clothes, he looked over to the bed and saw Arya’s steady gaze fixed directly on him, a curious look on her face. 

Glaring at her silently, Gendry waited until she flipped over with a grumble, pink face buried in her pillow, annoyed for gods know what reason. She remained on top of the covers, bare legs splaying about. He changed rapidly, blowing out the candles and flinging himself under the blankets, not daring to tempt fate. 

The flickering light from the fire cast shadows on her face as she turned to face him, a hand under her cheek. She seemed about to say something, but a yawn overtook her, jaw cracking loudly before she covered her mouth. Once finished, she simply says, “Goodnight Gendry.”

He falls asleep to the quiet rasp of her breathing, a lullaby he’d sorely missed. It’s the deepest sleep he’s had in years.

At some point, the fire goes out and a chill seeps into his bones. He shivers under the blankets as he sleeps, curling in on himself to preserve any heat, but he doesn’t wake. In the midnight hours, a freezing sensation had made its presence known between his calves, tiny pinpricks of ice leeching away his hard earned warmth. One of his arms is numb, the other wrapped tightly around something far more substantial than a pillow, though the texture feels far softer.

Cracking open a single eyelid, all he can see are brown curls.

Still sleep addled, he burrows closer, smelling soap and flowers in the hair resting just in front of him, the reason he cannot feel his hand. Arya had squirmed closer in her sleep, tucked herself against him and cradled herself in his arms, her body perfectly fitting in the mold of his. Her toes rest between his legs, no stockings or leggings to cover them despite autumn’s creeping bite in the air.

Realizing her icy Northern blood had failed her, his tired brain simply hugged her tightly, readjusting himself to fit her head under his chin. She cuddled against his chest, sighing softly.

Thinking of nothing at all but Arya’s happy laugh and soft smile, Gendry drifts back to sleep. In the morning, he will awake with empty arms to a chirping Arya and a memory that confuses dream with reality. He would swear up and down that he never touched her while they slept, but his mind can supply the exact scent of her hair and the precise way she breathed against the skin of his arm.

He doesn’t ask how she slept, and she never offers the information, only an enigmatic smile. They ride off early, no direction in particular in mind, merely away from where they had been. Away from the Freys, and the soldiers looking to reclaim their prize.

She sleeps in his arms the next night, and the one after that, because of the cold she says. They don’t mention it in their waking hours.

* * *

After days of travel, they finally came to another inn, and none too soon for Gendry’s rapidly fading self-control. He needed to find another horse, no matter what the ridiculous cost was going to be, because he could not take another day in the saddle with Arya’s sweet little arse seat just a hairsbreadth away from his cock or her breasts pressed against his back. 

No, they needed another bloody horse for her to ride before he lost his fucking mind.

Not even trying to argue with her this time, he let her head off to the inn as he walked over to the stablemaster, planning on inquiring about who might be selling a suitable mount in this area. But before he’d taken more than five steps, Arya was back, hand around his wrist and dragging him into the shadows next to the building. She backs up against the wall, pulling him in front of her, hiding herself entirely behind his larger frame.

“The Brotherhood, they’re here!” He feels more than hears her heated whispers against his chest as she buries her face into the fabric of his shirt. “Gendry, you can’t let them take me away again, they can’t take me again, they can’t! I just found you and they’re coming this way, they’re coming-” She’s panicking, he realizes, panicking at the thought of being separated once more. But he’s no longer the confused boy he was so many years ago, the one so easily cowed by men with sharp swords and greedy hands.

Reaching up to brush a hand to her hair in comfort, he asked under his breath, “What should we do?” 

Gray eyes darting back and forth, trying to track the movements of the Brotherhood over his shoulder, she opened her mouth and closed it quickly before a look of determination overtook her. “Kiss me.” He reared back in shock, and she reeled him back in, a breath from her own lips. “Gendry, kiss me now!”

There had to be another way, they couldn’t come back from this, _he_ couldn’t come back from this if he kissed her. He was already hers, but this would seal his fate forevermore. “Arya, I-”

Taking matters into her own hands, she rose up to meet his mouth squarely with her own, frantically pulling at his hair to bring him closer. For all her brash confidence, she stopped as soon as she recognized that he wasn’t responding, letting their mouths part until she was panting into the space between them. 

Looking down at her, Gendry could still see the panic and fear in her gaze, desperate not to be found by the Brotherhood, but there was something else. The brave part of him hoped it was desire. 

The stupid part of him decided to kiss her back.

After his moment of hesitation, Gendry felt his eyes close and fell headfirst into the sensation of kissing Arya, tilting his head for a better angle as he gently tugged on her loose curls to run his hand along her neck. She arched into his touch, a gasp falling from her lips as he slipped his tongue into her mouth, pulling her deeper into this kiss that he prays will never end.

Apparently growing tired of standing on her toes in order to reach his mouth, Arya jumps up suddenly, neatly hooking her legs around his waist. The swift change disrupts his balance, and she slams backwards into the wall, the force grinding her against his abs. He groans at the contact, knowing his arousal will be more than evident if she slips even a few inches down. So he makes sure his grip on her arse is firm and his feet steady as he moves down to kiss along her neck, so lost in her that everything else falls away.

The soft noises she makes will haunt him for the rest of his life, the tiny moans and squeaking intakes of breath as he sucks a mark against her pale skin. Her nails dig into the skin of his scalp, a warning or a reward, he isn’t sure. 

Drawing back, he sees her wild grin, and she guides him back to her mouth, kissing him with a surety that makes him see stars.

Feeling brave at the feeling of her hands on him, he lets one of his own tentatively wander, first running down her leg to hold it more securely around him then skirting up her side to rest on the swell of her hip. Brushing a thumb lightly over her stomach, he is content to remain there, but Arya makes a sound of discontent against his lips.

Before he can question her, she confidently takes his hand in hers and places it directly on her breast, flexing her fingers in his. A mischievous nip to his lips is all he needs to let himself follow her wordless command, caressing her through his own shirt and kneading at the hardening nipple in his fingers.

Time seems to stretch, and he has no idea if they are still in danger of being discovered by the Brotherhood. Gods help him, he doesn’t care if they’re found. He just wants to kiss Arya and lose himself in her for the rest of his existence. But the sound of ringing steel shatters his illusion of privacy, pulling him swiftly out of the dream he’d found himself enraptured in.

Fortunately, there is no sign of the Brotherhood in the yard behind him. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be much of anyone about. Turning back to Arya, he is unsure of what to say. What can he say to excuse how grossly he took advantage of the situation?

She must see something scared and sad in his expression, because her shy smile turns consoling and she reaches for his hand. Squeezing his fingers, Arya murmurs a near silent thank you before ducking under his arm to go figure out where their horse had wandered off to. 

Bracing himself with palms to the wall he’d almost ravished Arya on, Gendry shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then another. Then another. Slowly, he pulls the strung out pieces of his heart back together, because he kissed her, but that will be the only kiss they ever share.

He can only pray she still trusts him, will let him stay with her despite what just happened. Gendry has no idea what he will do if she asks him to leave her be. 

* * *

The next few days are quiet and relatively peaceful. Sometimes he catches her staring at his lips again, or touching her own with a wistful look on her face. Sometimes he catches himself doing the same.

They don’t mention the kiss. They still ride on the same horse.

There’s a lot of things they don’t talk about.

* * *

It all comes to a head on a day when the gods have decided to voice their displeasure for some imagined slight or another through a torrential downpour. They’re in the middle of the forest, no inn anywhere close, not even a brothel they could have at least begged a room from. Just their cloaks for protection as buckets of rain soak them to their bones.

Finally, they come to an area Gendry knows has a hopefully dry cave they can shelter in. He jumps down, urging her to follow him as he leads the horse over to a close tree and ties off the reins. Turning back to Arya, he sees her standing transfixed in front of one of the trees. Stark white with red leaves, he realizes they accidentally found a weirwood in these woods, but he can’t focus on that now. He needs to get them both warm and dry.

Pulling on her hand, he tries to bring her over to the cave, but she stubbornly pulls back at him, a silent tug of war with shaking, shivering hands. She plants her feet as she stares up at him challengingly, daring him to move her an inch. Tired, and cold, and fucking wet, he reaches down and hauls her over his shoulder, her weight even soaked through feels like nothing as he marches towards the small opening.

“What the fuck, you bastard!” And he stops, stunned speechless. Because that hurts, that word hurts more from Arya than from anyone else who’s ever hurled it his way in insult or anger or simply carelessness. But from Arya it feels like a stab wound left open and bleeding. Fed up with her and this stupid inability of his to talk to her, he gives himself over to the boiling tension that’s been simmering in his veins since he first saw her again.

Setting her down none too gently, he waved a finger in her face. “Fine, if I’m a fucking bastard, you can bloody stay right there milady! I don’t give a shit anymore. Sit there in the fucking rain and freeze to death why don’t you?” He pivots, stalking towards the warmth he knows is only feets away.

Something hits his back, something cold and wet that still feels different than rain. Whirling around, he sees her hand dripping with mud, and he knows exactly what she just threw at him. She stamps her foot as she yells, “Don’t call me that!”

“So you can call me a bastard, but I can’t call you milady? It’s what you are Arya, so fuck you and your double standards!”

“I’m not your fucking lady, I’m your Arya. Godsdamnit Gendry, call me Arya!”

“Why the fuck does it matter what I call you?”

“Because I love you, you bullheaded idiot!” Chest heaving, her gray eyes glitter as she steps closer to him, hands resting on his shoulders. “I love you.”

The air between them stills just as his heart stops, disbelief hammering in his head. Brokenly, his voice is thick as he tries to back away but she holds onto his sodden cloak. “You can’t love me Arya, you can’t.”

“Of course I love you, you idiot, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” Her fingers comb through his drenched locks as he leans into her touch. A wry smile works its way across her face as she says, “Besides, you can’t lie in front of a weirwood.” 

“I love you too.”

“I know.”

And there’s nothing else to say, so he kisses her like he has forever, because according to her, they do.

* * *

Eventually, laying on top of him in their little cave, Arya traced the multitude scars that cover Gendry’s chest and arms from a lifetime of work in the forge. Long healed burns, tiny nicks, smooth patches of hairless skin; all tell the story of her blacksmith. Her man, the one she may one day call her husband. 

And that is the thought that makes her sit up straight, a long forgotten memory of her father making its way to the forefront.

Still drowsy, Gendry heaves himself upwards behind her and rests his chin on her shoulder, arms sneaking under the cloak they share to wrap around her waist. Kissing her neck, he whispers in her ear as his hands wander. “What is it love?” 

When she doesn’t respond, simply remains stiff and frozen, he stops, concerned. Suddenly more alert, Gendry tenses, eyes darting through the hazy twilight shade to find the cause of Arya’s sudden panic. As he lets go of her to move for his sword, a quick hand reaches out and grasps his arm, pulling him back around her. Semi-reassured that nothing is exactly wrong, he waits and gently wraps himself back around Arya, hoping she will reveal whatever is troubling her. 

Arya being Arya, what she finally says makes his heart nearly explode. “I think we may have just gotten married. At least, according to the Old Gods?” her voice trembles, a nervousness he’s never associated with Arya Stark cutting through the quiet air. “I’m not sure; as children, we weren’t allowed to go to many weddings, but that was a weirwood we were arguing in front of, and then we kissed, so…” 

Eyebrows nearly in his hair, there isn’t a word capable of describing how utterly stunned he feels. Croaking, he manages to ask, “You think we are?” 

“We claimed each other, I was wearing your cloak, and we meant it.” She flips around in his arms, facing him now as she cuddles into his chest. 

“I am yours and you are mine.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Huh.”


End file.
